


L’Écho des mauvais rêves

by Manuka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manuka/pseuds/Manuka
Summary: OTP prompt generator gave me "Person B having to help Person A undress after an injury" and I came out with this
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	L’Écho des mauvais rêves

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Talvi for proofreading, you're an angel ♥

The pathways of Halamshiral are full of the indistinct mumbles of the nobles, bureaucrats and pedantic thinkers gathered to witness first-hand the events of the Exalted Council. Cullen groans quietly, barely greeting those he passes by even if they cast him weird glances. He despises these kinds of people; they’re like starving vultures, waiting for fallen prey to eat alive. Orlais, Ferelden, they’re all the same at the end of the day. He has no idea how Josephine can put up with them, bravely defending the Inquisition and its purpose.

The indoor corridors are quieter, at least. He follows the one leading to the bedrooms, stops in front of a door, stares at it. His throat is unexpectedly tight when he knocks.

“Inquisitor? May I come in?”

The sound vaguely echoes in the empty corridor, but there is no answer. He frowns, hesitates for a few seconds before pushing the handle; it doesn’t resist and the door opens.

The bedroom is almost completely in the dark. A few curtains are still mid opened though, allowing some light to get in. He casts a quick glance around, but the room looks like so many others here: a lot of expensive furniture, some bookcases and chairs, a table, a bed; but no sign of Aodren.

“Inquisitor?” he calls again, turning around.

He suddenly hears a noise coming from the bathroom: a crash, followed by a loud thud and then what’s likely to be swear words. He walks quickly –more likely rushes- to the adjacent room and enters. The Herald is on the ground, next to a broken jar of whatever orlesians call the purple-ish mixture that used to be in it and is now splattered around.

“Inquisitor! Are you hurt?” he asks, concerned.

“Only my ego, don’t worry,” Aodren grunts, making a vague gesture of the hand and keeping his head low, avoiding the Commander’s eyes.

If anything, this worries Cullen even more. He comes closer, noticing that the Herald is still wearing the dirty and damaged clothes he had when he, Cassandra, Dorian and the Iron Bull went to the Eluvian a few hours earlier. His hair is still loose and falling on his shoulders, and the stains on his cheeks stand out on his fair skin.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, trying to make eye contact.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” comes the reply, and Aodren still refuses to look at him.

The elf is absolutely not fine and he can see him shivering slightly. Awkwardly, he kneels in front of him, his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

“No, you’re obviously not,” Cullen says softly.

He places a gentle hand onto his right shoulder, but Aodren abruptly raises his head, his eyes burning with rage.

“Then why did you ask?!” the elf snarls.

Cullen recoils, taken aback by the sudden movement and the anger he didn’t expect. Aodren is breathing heavily now, taking short and quick inhales. His eyes are wide, his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched. Driven by his outburst, he tries to get up but stumbles, and it’s only thanks to the commander’s quick reaction that he doesn’t fall back. The Inquisitor lets out a painful sound through his gritted teeth, but he holds onto Cullen with a desperate grip.

“Easy, easy…,” Cullen whispers.

He helps him seat on an adorned stool, watching silently as Aodren’s breathing slowly goes back to normal. The Dalish loosens his grasp and swallows, eventually looking at him.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his voice rough.

It’s the first time Cullen sees him looking so exhausted, broken, _defeated_. Their Herald is a hot headed and fierce Dalish; he is strong, eager to help and to face whatever he believes to be wrong. He is not the kind to despair easily, thinking fast and quickly recovering when he is stroke down, questioning himself when he needs to.

But right now, it’s not the Inquisitor he has in front of him, it’s Aodren, and he is on the verge of collapsing.

“It doesn’t matter for now,” Cullen answers softly.

The elf snorts, his lips stretched in a semblance of a smile. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.

“The Council wants me to come, right?”

“You’re in no condition to go,” he retorts firmly. “You need to rest. You must take care of yourself-”

“I can’t!”

This time, he expects the outburst and is ready for it. Aodren is shivering again, but at least he is still looking at him.

“I can’t!” he repeats, his voice wavering. “I’ve been trying for the past hour and I can’t, I can’t, I…”

Only then Cullen notices how the forearm protection the Dalish wears is only halfway untied, the leather lace bitten; how the elf’s lips are slightly swollen. He has managed to get rid of the straps covering his calves and feet, though, the strips laying on the ground next to the bathtub.

“I can’t…,” Aodren says again quietly, closing his eyes. “I can’t and it hurts.”

Maker, did they really leave him on his own when he has just been missing an arm? Sure, he had said he was fine when they came back from the elvan portal a few hours earlier, that he was already healed, that he didn’t need any help.

Cullen should have known better than to believe any of it. He should have known the Dalish would pretend everything was fine. He is a soldier; he knows how hard adjusting to such an injury can be.

“Let me help you, then. Please, Aodren.” He then adds “let me help” when the elf doesn’t answer

Aodren hesitates, looks at him with uncertainty before nodding slowly and stretching out his arm. Cullen undoes the lace carefully and takes the protection away. There is no tie to the cotton coat, but he still removes it slowly, taking care not to touch what remains of the left arm. It may be healed, but it might still be sensitive. He hears Aodren swallow, but the elf doesn’t move.

“Do you need me to help you with your tunic?” he asks.

He doesn’t want to overstep, to act on his own. Aodren is in shock, not completely incapacitated.

“I… I don’t think I can,” he admits. “My fingers shake too much.”

Cullen doesn’t know what crosses his mind, but he takes Aodren’s hand between his and holds it gently. The Dalish squeezes back lightly, his eyes watery.

“I know it’s easy for me to say this,” the man says, “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but things will get better. I promise.”

They stay like this for some time, then Cullen goes back to the tunic. He doesn’t look at the left arm, but doesn’t look away either. He hesitates, but helps with the legging too, and then supports the shivering elf to the bath. The water is still hot, thankfully.

“I’ll stay nearby while you bathe,” Cullen offers. “Call if you need anything.”

Aodren catches his arm before he leaves; this time, his smile is almost normal, even if tired.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you, earlier. I’m sorry.”

“I threw my lyrium supply at you once, I think it makes us even.”

“I suppose it does,” the elf laughs softly.

Cullen then leaves, and as promised, he waits in the bedroom. He helps again later when Aodren struggles with the Inquisition’s uniform, and he stays by his side when he goes to face the Council, holding Divine Justinia’s writ for him. When they arrive at the door of the council, Cullen gives him the book and the Inquisitor is back.

“Good luck,” Cullen says.

“Don’t worry,” the Dalish sighs. “Soon, this will hopefully be nothing else than the echo of some bad dreams.”


End file.
